Communion
This Morning, No 100
We sit in the furthest back row, like always. Maybe this is because we are half Jewish, more likely because we have the almost three-year-old twins with us. In all my time going to church, which is once a year for Christmas - this is where we sit. Always feeling as though one foot is out the door. This Christmas Eve we go to the church on 86th between Park and Lexington. The last time I was here was the evening after the afternoon that I got into a car crash. When my ex-boyfriend – who is forgiven - totaled my car. Eight years ago. Also, right before Trump first took office. We stood in the pews crying that night, my family and I, while we sang Silent Night. All a bit more conscious of our, and my particular, mortality than we had been the day prior.
This year, we entered the church at the same time as Hillary and Bill Clinton. As you might imagine, we hadn’t coordinated. My sister remarks, “not a great week for Bill.” To which, I say “why?” The Epstein files, of course. I’ve been out of it, to say the least. It first started as self-preservation and has now veered into ignorance. Something to solve for in the New Year, or not. They sit in the front row. I think about how there was a moment in time where I hung so much hope on this one person. Hillary Clinton. It strikes me now as insane. We need all of us, but I was so hopeful we could get away with it just being her. To be the first woman. To be not Trump. To save me. To save us. The future was female, remember? She is just a person, going to church, like any of us. Her grandson is crying. She takes communion. I’ve been watching the Taylor Swift documentary and I keep thinking about how the universe chooses (is it choice?) to funnel so much energy through certain people or souls. As though they are capable of holding more, which I think some people are. I am taken aback at the amount of my own energy that I directed towards Hillary. Now to see her in three-dimensions, it seems irresponsible to raise each other up to these otherworldly heights, when we are all, inescapably, flesh and bone. Or blond highlights and warm coats.
Driving up the East River towards my family’s apartment on the Upper East Side earlier that day, I passed the UN building as I have hundreds of times in my life. The stark light of winter hit its white marble façade and it looked quite beautiful and convincing. I think that is the point of this striking slab of bright white Vermont marble. In a city of reflective surfaces, the soft absorptive density of the marble cuts through all the visual vibration, relaxes the eyes. Our world is chaos but the clean lines of the UN do what I think they were intended to do. Settle and neutralize. The look of this particular building encourages a sort of confidence. That a strong, steady and benevolent force lives within these walls. Which we know is not the whole truth. Netanyahu was just there this past September. I have a thought that feels like a revelation, that everything beautiful and terrible happens within a building. Babies - worlds - are born in rooms, tucked within buildings with central air and elevators. War plans are decided in rooms with wall to wall carpeting and brass door knobs. Or a house. Or a boat. Or a cabin. A person-made structure is what I mean. Decisions powered by fear and love are made at tables in rooms with chairs and doors and ceilings. Made with sheetrock and timber. It is not some evil Oz in the sky or some all-loving God that determines this world. Or maybe it is? What do I know? In that moment I’m struck by the smallness and also the mass impact of being human. Everything is catalyzed by people like me, getting a glass of water, sitting down and making a choice. That is all.
The time comes to take communion. A thing I’ve never done but on this night, I do. “For the experience”, I say to my sister whose face looks somewhat reticent, as I rise from the pew. They give us the body and then the blood. The body could use some salt, as bodies do. The blood comes in a thimble sized sippy cup with a holy purple covering, like the kind you get with Boba Tea and have to peel off. I like something about this pastor, maybe that is why I take communion. The encouragement towards embodiment. Like everyone, I am bolstered by shared ritual and also think that it can’t hurt to get in a line of people hoping, through imbibing, to pick up even just a smidge more of Christ consciousness.
The pastor doesn’t say anything particularly revelatory, but when he reminds us to see the God in everyone, it really does feel like a reminder of something I had briefly forgotten. Now, owning a restaurant I interface with 500% more strangers than I did previously. Not all on their best behavior. Sometimes I don’t see God. Sometimes I see Bill, who is bothering me. I am happy to be reminded. I needed to be.
The family in the pew in front of ours holds on to each other for much of the service. During Silent Night, the church turns the lights down. I notice the mother has tears streaming down her face. The suggestion of darkness allows for just the amount of privacy she needs to release. I wonder what is happening in her life…So I pray for her.
Beautiful Gracie 🙏